A haloed tracery of branches,
Clad in thick white frost, immaculate
against a perfect sky.
Stunning! No – that word is much too small
for this beauty, and I want to find another.

Instead I picture a somber scene, of trees at the edge
of a meadow, plumed with frost that built
for days until it hung resembling
catkins, which children called lambs’ tails.
These plumes were silver-grey,
built with fog so thick and dense
it seemed we lived within the cloud.

But it was early days of Spring, eventually
fog cleared and in the meadow
first lambs appeared. While hoar frost
Clung to trees for a while, lambs’ creamy whiteness
Shone against the silver.
We could watch lambs wobble,
find their legs one day,
Find their sense of play next day.
Turn grey and gloom to fun.
As my attention returns to this blue and white,
For a moment both scenes are present in my mind.
There is no word for what I see.